The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

Beobrand thought quickly. He did not want Wybert near him, but he needed to get him to accept the situation and his authority.

Beobrand addressed them all. “I will go into the forest and parley with the men who have Coenred. Alric and Leofwine will come with me.” He saw Wybert scowl, but before he could speak, he continued, “Wybert will stay here and lead you should anything befall us.” Wybert frowned and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, looking uncertain. After a moment’s pause, he nodded his assent. Beobrand let out a breath. He had no time for Wybert’s petty dislike of him and was glad he’d accepted the semblance of power over his fellow villagers.

“Now, stand tall and make a good show of strength,” he said quietly to the group. Then, in a louder voice, “Alric, Leofwine, come with me. We will approach the men in the forest.”

With that, he turned on his heel, raised his shield with a grunt as it strained his still tender ribs, and, not waiting to see if the others joined him, strode up the path towards the darkness of the forest.

Once they were out of earshot of the villagers, Alric whispered, “I hope you know what you’re doing, boy. This is like betting your life on a single toss of the knuckle bones!”

Beobrand didn’t answer. He gritted his teeth and carried on walking. He was well aware of the gamble he was taking, but he’d made up his mind to rescue Coenred or die trying. What he hadn’t bargained on was leading others with him. Too late to worry about that now. He’d done what seemed right and to his amazement the villagers had accepted the leadership of a young, inexperienced warrior quickly and easily. He just hoped that their faith in him being able to protect them wasn’t as misplaced as Tata’s had been in the Christ god.

They were breathing hard by the time they reached the first trees of the forest. Their breath billowed in front of them briefly before being swept away by the chill wind. They stepped into the murk and slowed their pace. All their senses were heightened. After a few steps, Beobrand stopped. Alric and Leofwine flanked him, holding their weapons menacingly. They looked further into the shadows under the trees. They cast glances to either side, expecting an ambush. But they saw no-one.

Beobrand stood his ground and leant on his spear, planting the haft in the earth. His pose displayed a confidence he did not feel.

“Come out and release our friend!” he shouted in a strong voice that showed no sign of nervousness.

For a few heartbeats there was no reply, and then a deep voice replied from the gloom, “Why should we give him to you? We’re hungry. Give us provisions and we’ll give you back your little monk. Otherwise we’ll cut his throat and then take what we want!”

Beobrand’s anger settled into a cold fire in his chest. The calm he’d felt in the battle of Elmet descended upon him.

He took a step toward the voice and replied, “No. You will give us the boy back now, or the warriors in the village will come to my call and we will kill you all. Do you think we are not prepared for brigands? Look at them, they await my command. We have come here without them to avoid bloodshed, but this is your last warning. Release the boy now, or die!”

There was no reply for a long time. It seemed as if the whole forest was holding its breath. The wind stopped its bluster and Beobrand could feel his pulse in the scar under his left eye. This was the moment when the bluff was tested. As time passed he feared the worst. He began to prepare for battle, seeing no other outcome from this impasse, when a different voice replied.

“Beobrand? Is that you?” The voice was younger and less self-assured.

Beobrand was startled. At first he couldn’t place the owner of the voice. Then he realised it was that of Tondberct, the young warrior he had befriended in Edwin’s warband.

“Tondberct? What are you doing here?” Beobrand replied, dropping his guard slightly, but still wary.

Tondberct stepped from the trees ahead onto the path and smiled. “I could ask you the same thing.” He then spoke over his shoulder, “It’s alright, I know him.”

Five others emerged from the shade of the trees, four large men, carrying the accoutrements of war, and one smaller figure. Beobrand’s heart leaped when he recognised Coenred. He seemed unharmed.

“Let the boy go back to his people. Then we can talk.” Beobrand kept his voice easy now, hoping that Tondberct held enough sway in the group to allow Coenred to go free.

Tondberct turned and talked quietly with the others, then said, “Fine. Have him back. But I hope you’ll give us some food and drink. We’re starving!”

Beobrand was elated to see Coenred leave the group of warriors and walk quickly down the path to where he waited with Alric and Leofwine. Coenred gave them a weak smile as he passed and then broke into a run for the monastery and hamlet below.

Once Coenred was at a safe distance, Beobrand turned his attention back to Tondberct and his companions.

“I know you are hungry and cold, but the people here have little to offer and you have attacked one of their own.”

“We did him no harm,” replied the tallest of the warriors. He stepped forward. He wore a leather jerkin reinforced with metal plates. He carried a large shield and had a sword in a plain scabbard at his side. His bearded face was angular and handsome. He was perhaps ten years Beobrand’s senior and carried himself with a warrior’s natural grace. Beobrand had a glimmer of recognition. Had he met the man before?

“He sneaked up on us in the woods and we thought we could use him to get some food,” the warrior continued. Beobrand recognised the voice from the earlier exchange. “We never meant him any harm. It was just a bluff. We knew it would be hard to convince people here to give us provisions. So we improvised.” The man offered an engaging smile.

Beobrand was not wholly convinced, but the man appeared genuine and Tondberct travelled with him, so perhaps things were as he said.

“I will go and speak to the villagers and see what they have to offer you. Stay on the edge of the forest where we can see you and do not approach the monastery, or we’ll be forced to defend ourselves and you are truly outnumbered.” Beobrand looked from the group’s leader to Tondberct, searching the face of the younger man for any signs of duplicity. Tondberct’s open and friendly face was pinched with cold and hardship, but Beobrand saw no malice there. He nodded at Tondberct, then turned and walked back to the settlement. Alric and Leofwine fell into step beside him. As if by common agreement, they did not talk on the brief walk back.

When they reached the group of villagers posing as warriors they were greeted by a hubbub of voices. Many of them were asking Coenred questions about his ordeal. Who were the men in the forest? What had they done to him? Why had they let him go? Coenred was doing his best to answer, but there were too many people speaking at once for any intelligible conversation. As Beobrand, Alric and Leofwine approached, the faces turned to them and slowly they quietened, waiting for Beobrand to speak.

“There are five of them. They are warriors. Probably all survivors from the battle of Elmet. They want supplies. I’ve told them we don’t have much, but I think it would be best to give them some food and encourage them to move on from here.” Beobrand lowered his voice, “At the moment, they still believe you are a band of armed men, but that won’t last long if you continue to prattle like washerwomen!”

He turned to Alric, “What say you?”

Alric nodded. “I think Beobrand is right. And let us not forget that his quick thinking has returned Coenred to us unharmed. Wilda, organise the women to bring together enough provisions for five men for a few days.”

Wybert looked furious as the women moved to do Alric’s bidding. “Who made Beobrand our leader all of a sudden? Why should we give up our food to these strangers? We have little enough left after those Waelisc stole most of our stores.” Wybert spat.

Before Beobrand could reply, Alric spoke to Wybert in a firm, but sad tone. “It is decided, Wybert. Do not make a quarrel where there is none. Now go and help your mother collect the food.”

Wybert’s face flushed. He looked at Beobrand with loathing, and then stalked off after the women.

Coenred had been petrified while he was held by the warriors in the forest. They had not harmed him, but the threat of harm was ever present. He had been sure they would kill him. Would he meet Tata in the afterlife? Would she forgive him for leaving her to the men who had defiled her? Would she forgive his lack of faith?

He had tried to pray. To block out the voices of the men as they discussed how best to convince the villagers to give up their winter stockpiles of food. He would begin to recite the Pater Noster in his head, but the words would tangle in his mind and he would find himself picking out strands of the hushed conversations.

He shivered from the cold and the memory. They had discussed whether they should kill him and how best to do it. How long they should wait before making a show of strength by murdering him and what would have the most impact on the village. After some debate they had agreed that it would be most impressive to cut off his head and put it on the end of a spear. That way, all the villagers would be able to see.

It was at that point that Beobrand had called out. A wave of relief had washed over Coenred. He could hardly believe it as the brief exchange progressed and he was allowed to return unscathed to the monastery.

He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders against the wind and approached Beobrand.

“Well,” he said, managing a smile, “looks like you’ve saved my life once. I think that leaves you still in my debt. By my reckoning, I’ve saved yours twice.”

Beobrand returned the smile. “Never let it be said that the sons of Grimgundi do not honour their debts.” He clapped Coenred on the shoulder. “I am truly glad you’re safe,” he said earnestly. “Now you should get yourself inside by a fire. You look ready to drop with cold.”

“Will you take the provisions to them?” Coenred asked. “You must be careful. They are killers, Beobrand.”

“Don’t fret about me. I know Tondberct and I’m sure he will offer me no harm.”

Coenred thought back to the discussion of how to murder him and mutilate him. He shivered again.

“Just be careful and don’t go to them alone.”

He walked back to the monastery with a feeling of doom in his heart. It was not that he was fearful for Beobrand’s safety; it was that he feared his friend resembled the rogue warriors waiting at the skirts of the forest.

Beobrand spent the remainder of the day in the company of the warriors by the forest. He helped carry the provisions to them and they invited him to break his fast on their new provender. They lit a fire and he fell into easy conversation, first with Tondberct, and then with the band’s leader, the tall, bearded warrior, whose name was Hengist.

“Have we met before?” asked Beobrand.

Hengist gave him a long appraising look. “Aye, I travelled south from Bebbanburg. I was there in the hall when you swore allegiance to Edwin. I was one of his hearth-warriors.” He lowered his eyes, looking distraught at having survived his lord.

The other men were taciturn and hardly spoke. Dreng was a wily old man, well over forty years of age, with thinning grey hair and only three teeth in his wizened mouth. He sat quietly by the fire, stirring the porridge. Beobrand could feel his hooded eyes on him all the time, like a hungry wolf watching a lamb.

The remaining two were Waelisc. They were brothers. The older of the two, Artair, was about ten years older than Beobrand. He was stocky and the shortest in the group. The younger brother was called Hafgan. He was maybe a couple of years Beobrand’s senior and almost the exact opposite of Artair. He was as tall as Beobrand, but much slighter of build. The only thing that marked them out as siblings was their hair. They both had long, startlingly black hair, tied back in pony tails. They wore no armour. Each was armed with javelins and long, vicious-looking knives. They sat close together and whispered in their own tongue. Both whittled sticks with their long blades.

All of them had fought at the battle of Elmet.

“What happened? I didn’t see the end of the battle,” Beobrand said.

“It was chaos at the end,” said Tondberct. The others sat quietly around the fire, eyes hooded as they relived those last moments of the battle in their minds. “The shieldwall broke and then it was all death. King Edwin was slain, his son too. My father died then, in that final crush.” He cuffed tears away from his eyes before they could drop down his cheeks.

“Men closed in on the king to defend him, but it was useless. My father pushed me away before the end. Told me to flee. I saw that the battle was lost, so I ran.” He was silent then for a moment, perhaps ashamed at having deserted his father.

“I am sorry about your father,” said Beobrand.

Tondberct offered him a thin smile and a nod of thanks. “I went south for a couple of days. I didn’t really know where I could go. I had no food, so in the end I decided I needed to travel north. Back to kin and friends who would help me. That is when I met Hengist and the others.”

The conversation moved on to what had happened to Beobrand after the battle. He told of his injury, being found by Coenred, the attack of the Waelisc and how the people of Engelmynster had nursed him back to health.

“What are your plans?” Beobrand asked when he had finished his story.